


Master's Right Hand

by Morgause1



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Bad Puns, Choking, D/s, Fetish, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Fetish, Humor, Kink, M/M, Master/Servant, Porn, Rough Sex, Sex, Smut, Spanking, Strip Tease, Teasing, Vala/maia, Well - Freeform, angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-01-09 00:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12264765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgause1/pseuds/Morgause1
Summary: Over the years, Mairon has developed quite a fetish for Melkor’s hands.Melkor has always been a teasing bastard.





	1. Chapter 1

Things became much more interesting when Melkor noticed how the sight of his naked hands affected Mairon.

That sight was rare indeed: ever since the incident with the accursed, beautiful Silmarils, Melkor kept his burned hands covered by the special gauntlets his Lieutenant crafted for him, a strangely-silken combination of leather and closely-knit metal, woven together by the Maia’s particular brand of fire magic. The gloves protected him against the friction provided by everyday objects – the polished metal of his throne, the coarseness of a scroll-covered stone table, the occasional roughness of Orc neck, even the soft touch of his garments – all of which caused him misery and a sense of humiliation. Everything was horrible to the touch, except for his Lieutenant’s skin.

Melkor could not explain why Mairon’s fána was the only thing that did not hurt. Perhaps he found a way to attune his flesh to Melkor’s, so both vibrated in unison? That would make sense. That Maia was always so eager to please him, much more than the rest of his folk were. He was far more successful at that, too. And so it happened that the only times when Melkor ever removed his gloves were to touch Mairon, and by touch I do mean _touch_. And like the later-days’ Pavlov’s slobbering hounds, Mairon learned quickly.

Now Melkor, being the sadistic prick that he was, found the idea absolutely enchanting. Seated at the head of the council table, he watched as his chief Lieutenant and right hand (both at council and, pardon me, in bed) leaned over the great map spread at the center of the table, moving figurine markers to and fro with a polished onyx pointer. The Maia was arguing his tactics for several hours now. It was somewhat interesting, of course, especially when he was leaning over just like _that_ , straining over the large table with his muscles clearly visible under that fine silk he clothed himself in… but unlike his dim-witted generals who kept asking questions, Melkor already got the main gist of his plan quite a while ago. It was good enough, as always. Why exhaust him with so much unnecessary detail? First antsy, then tortured, and finally endlessly bored, Lord Melkor got an unusual idea.        

“Interesting,” he said, drawing the Maia’s attention to him. With this achieved, he started pulling on his glove, one finger at the time. ”And then?”

Mairon’s eyes followed the movements of his hands for a moment, and then forcibly returned to the map.

“When the company reaches this point they would feign attack, drawing the enemy out from here and – “ a musical jingling sounded when Melkor pulled his glove completely off, let it hang from his fingertips for a moment and then dropped it on the table. Mairon gulped, staring, as Melkor began stripping his other hand, a sly grin gracing his lips. It was painful now that his hand was unprotected, but seeing Mairon’s eyes widen like that made Melkor feel particularly brave.

“Go on.”

“They would be reckless, of course.” Mairon said in a determined voice. “That foolish prince of theirs has had a desperate craving for heroics ever since he lost his _hand_ …” The other glove was off. Melkor rubbed his fingers slowly over his lower lip. They came off glistening. Mairon was obviously trying very hard not to gawk, but Melkor could clearly see the direction his mind drifted, as if the lewd images were playing out right on his suddenly sweaty forehead. Mairon tugged at his tunic’s neck and continued.

“And then the ambush will spring. The company led by Artush will descend upon them from the left, while Gorbag’s Orcs would hammer them in toward the cliffs and make a grab at… my Lord, please.” That last part was whispered under his breath.

Melkor, who to his glee found a cylindrical scroll holder lying so comfortably at hand, stopped toying with it meaningfully for a second to give Mairon a magnanimous wave. “You may continue, Lieutenant. I assure you that you have my full attention.”    

Mairon gazed at him imploringly. His lips formed a soundless “please stop”. Melkor chose to ignore him and ran beautiful, long fingers (albeit blackened and dry) all the way around the holder’s tip. Thuringwethil coughed unexpectedly and he turned to her. She was licking her lips, apparently transfixed by either the movements of his hands or the change in his demeanor. He shot her a venomous look, making her flinch and wrap her wings about her protectively. Good. The Vampire was getting too presumptuous lately, most likely because she herself has been giving the Vala some good sport when his favorite plaything was otherwise occupied. Melkor added “putting Thuringwethil back in her place” to his to-do list.

Unfortunately, Mairon shamelessly abused his master’s momentary lack of attention to reassume some control of his faculties and was talking to Gothmog, probably answering a question Melkor didn’t catch. He was also strategically holding a map in front of his mid-section. Melkor frowned: the Maia sure was good, but still no match for him in a contest of Will. A more direct course of action was required.   

“You seem to be forgetting something glaringly important, Mairon.”

Mairon stopped mid-sentence and bit his lip. He seemed confused and agitated by this confusion. He never did like losing his calm in public. “What do you mean, my Lord?”

Wordlessly, Melkor stood up and rounded the table to where Mairon was standing.

“What makes you so sure that they will engage in a frontal assault and not, as seems more reasonable,” leaning around him and pressing himself firmly against his back, he took Mairon’s pointer-wielding hand and moved it further across the map, tracing the curve of the hill and bending the Maia over a little. He felt his backside stretch, round and firm, against his thigh. That was inspiring. He lowered his voice to a sensual whisper ghosting just above Mairon’s ear. “From the rear?”

Mairon, always a symbol of confident, military elegance, whimpered openly. Melkor noticed that his fingers trembled within his grasp. He turned his face towards him and Melkor felt his hot breath coming in gasps against his skin.

“He already discussed that earlier, Master.” One of the Orc generals croaked unwisely and was immediately gagged by several peers’ hands. By Himself, they were all pining to get their heads chewed off today, weren’t they? Fortunately for them, Melkor had other things on his mind at the moment.

“Are you quite well, Lieutenant?”

Mairon was saucer-eyed and dumb. This made Melkor exceptionally pleased, so naturally he arranged his features into a spectacular mask of godly rage.

“Well? Speak!”

“The hands that created…” Mairon whispered, his voice shaking. “And _crushed_ – “ he didn’t seem to be completely aware of his surroundings anymore, lost in Melkor’s aura. The other generals assembled looked at each other. The Maiar seemed concerned, the Orcs – downright frightened.

“Meeting adjourned,” Melkor announced sternly. The room emptied almost immediately. Melkor slammed the doors with a Word behind their retreating backs and turned to Mairon, grimacing like a hurricane. Mairon noted at last that he was in trouble and sunk to his knees.

“I am appalled. What were you thinking, behaving like that in front of my officers?” Oh, he knew exactly what he was thinking. It only made his squirming sweeter.

Mairon shook his head violently, as if trying to get it to start working again. Melkor didn’t let him.

“It would seem that even you, Lieutenant, might require a proper lashing every now and again.”

Mairon looked devastated. “Should I fetch your whip, Master?”

“No,” Melkor drawled. “Come here and lower your trousers,” he sat back on his great chair, finally allowing a victorious smile to spread across his face. Knowing his Mairon’s devious desires and tendencies, his lap would probably be soaking wet by the time he finished chastising him. “ _I’d rather use my hands_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I received comments from several admirable members of this site, reprimanding me for finishing this fic too early. Despite being shy, I decided to woman up and provide the requested material and wrote PORN.
> 
> So there you are. Just remember you brought it upon yourselves, bad puns and all.

“Your… hands, Master?” for all the eons of their acquaintance, Melkor never heard the Maia’s schooled, velvety voice rise this high. Now that his tough outer shell was all but cracked, the nutty interior of Mairon’s heart was revealed in all its creamy splendor. Melkor fought the urge to lick his lips.   

“Now, Lieutenant.” it was becoming hard to keep his face straight, so he was glad as the Maia hurriedly stumbled to his feet and lowered his gaze to fumble with the lacings of his trousers. As he watched, other parts of him were becoming hard, too. Mairon finally overcame the difficulties arising from shaking fingers and uneven terrain and slipped the leather down to mid-thigh. He came to stand so close to him now that Melkor could feel the heat arising from his body. The thought of taunting him some more passed as lightening through his mind, but his greedy hands were already moving on their own, pulling the Maia down to lie across his knees. And oh, the creature’s shuddering, helpless moan was more than adequate substitute for a few more minutes of watching him squirm in discomfort. Melkor pulled up Mairon’s tunic, finally exposing his well-rounded, muscular buttocks. The frail silk tore with a squeal, but none of them cared. Melkor wiggled his knee, cheerfully noting the hard bulge pressed against his thigh.   

“What’s that, Maia?” he reached over, fingers as warm and as dark as his voice, to touch it. Oh yes, that was exactly what he wanted. “Are you excited about being punished?”

Mairon was beyond the realm of words and deep into incoherent whimpering territory. Luckily for him, Melkor didn’t expect much from him at this point in the way of stimulating conversation. The way he rutted into his caressing fingers was good enough… But the Vala was getting distracted. This isn’t what he wanted to do. He withdrew his fingers from underneath the Maia and let his hand fall on his backside with a thud.

Elves are such a silly species, thought the Vala absentmindedly. They always obsessed about singing, running waters and the crystalline harmonies of lutes, while obviously the most beautiful sound in all Eä was the guttural groan his Lieutenant just let loose. It held all that was good in this world: pain, physical pleasure, humiliation, and most sweetly – an abject submission to Melkor’s will. He slammed his hand down again, harder, and more of that beautiful music followed. A bright smile stretched across the Vala’s face: this is going to be so much fun.

He continued, alternating between hitting and rubbing the pained flesh. The silken skin of Mairon’s buttocks and thighs turned an angry shade of pink, then red. Mairon was clearly suffering, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t try to cover himself. Not that he expected him to do so, of course – he was a Maia, not some lowly Incarnate – but still it warmed Melkor’s black heart to see such loyalty. All he did was cling to Melkor’s boot, either for balance or just for comfort.

It took a while, but Mairon eventually broke. He began wailing loudly, a wolfish keening that made it very hard for Melkor to concentrate. The thing needed to shut up. He was too far gone to understand even the simplest of commands at this point, so Melkor just shoved the fingers of his free hand into his mouth. Bad move, he understood too late: the Maia took it as an invitation to start sucking on his fingers. The last bits of Melkor’s concentration were dissolved in a hot, wet, slightly tickly haze. He pretended not to notice the covert way in which Mairon’s hips bobbed up and down, grinding his sex against his Master’s lap with every smack.

He stopped to smooth his hand over Mairon’s flat belly, his heaving chest, his throat, and then back down, pausing momentarily to twist his sensitive nipples. Mairon shimmered, his overheated skin covering in goosebumps. He was so beautiful, so perfect in his arms. Melkor needed to hurt him. He dragged his sharp nails down his back, marking him as his own, and resumed the spanking. Faster, harder. _More_.

Mairon’s movements were becoming more and more frantic and his moans louder. Suddenly he screamed and Melkor felt a new heat spread all over his thigh, soaking into the thick velvet covering his leg and dripping onto the floor. He twisted his fist in Mairon’s braid and pulled hard, turning his face towards him. Yes, just like he thought.

“Did you just cum on me, Maia?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and seductive. The Maia shuddered, blinking like an owl and trying to focus his eyes on him. After a few tries he managed to whisper.

“Yes, Master.”

“Really?” Melkor reached again for his sex, finding it wet and softening. “You came without my permission? While being punished?” He closed his hand around it and squeezed, eliciting a sharp cry from his servant. Mairon’s already flushed face deepened into quite a frightening shade of crimson. His pretty mouth opened and a torrent of words gushed out. Melkor assumed that he was apologizing wildly, like he used to do whenever he made some minor mistake. He was probably pleading to be allowed to correct his ways, swearing fealty and love or some such things. Melkor didn’t care to listen – Mairon could be so awfully melodramatic sometimes. Any moment now he would prostrate himself at his feet and start kissing the hem of his robes – ugh, right on schedule – Melkor caught him as he started to drop and held tight, noticing with satisfaction that his mouth closed at last. In the silence that ensued he could almost hear the rustle of flames burning in his chest. His pants were starting to really cut off circulation: the Maia had better do something about it, and soon.

The taters of Mairon’s tunic were drenched in sweat. Melkor tore them off entirely, tossing them into the shadows. The leather trousers received a similar treatment, and the boots were kicked away. There. Now nothing obscured the Maia’s beauty from his gaze. He lifted him effortlessly and deposited him on the table, sweeping off the carefully arranged maps and markers. He laughed when he saw the grimace on Mairon’s face: befuddled as he was, he never liked seeing hours of work recklessly destroyed. But then again, it might also have been just his sore buttocks crashing against stone. Laughter aside, Melkor’s plight was becoming dire. He had no other choice but to lean in and kiss him and oh, oh that was good.

Wrapping his legs around his master’s thighs, Mairon seemed to forget his feigned offenses against the Vala’s dignity and occupied himself with licking Melkor’s lips, moaning when his tongue was bitten, and loosening the lacings of his pants. One hot hand clung to his arm, openly admiring the strength of his muscles, before moving to caress his face. The other hand, which held far more acute relevance for Melkor, slipped into the front of his trousers and quickly found its goal, pulling his aching erection out of its terrible prison of leather and velvet. Those deft fingers began to stroke him. Looking down, Melkor saw that his fingers glowed – he was using every skill and magic he possessed to rile him on. And it was working well, too. Perhaps too well.

Melkor shoved Mairon off of him, and not a moment too soon. He could feel the heat transform in his sex, coiling wild and desperate into pure poison. He didn’t want to cum like that. He teetered on the edge for a long moment, screwing his eyes shut. When they finally reopened, they were completely black. Mairon gasped at the sight, his soft lips trembling. Melkor kissed him again, this time catching both his wrists in one hand and holding them behind his back. He could feel Mairon shifting his body to prepare for penetration. Luckily for him, he learned to be quick about it. Melkor was not known for his patience.

“Turn around,” he demanded. “Knees on the table, ass in the air.”

He watched as the Maia scrambled to do his bidding, pressing his chest into the stone and hungrily offering up his marked behind. Melkor’s hands spread him out and then tightened in a spasm: he managed to wait exactly one second before ramming into him with everything he had.

The next minutes were wild – Melkor’s overflowing senses barely registered the cacophony of screams and pleading, half-drowned by the thunder of blood in his veins and the beating of his heart. The only thing that really interested him was the pleasure rising up and spiking inside him, expanding with every passing moment into something truly unbearable. Some of the screaming might have been his own. Crushing Mairon’s throat, he lifted him up to press against the curve of his body. One glance at his face, and what he saw glowing in his eyes propelled him irrevocably over the edge.

When he came back from his trance, he noticed the Maia’s soul slowly spinning around his own, singing quietly and glimmering. His fána lie boneless in his arms, its head lolling from side to side. He took a deep breath and pulled out of him. Cleaning himself on some thrown away scrap of Mairon’s tunic, his quickly re-arranged his clothing and his face.

“Have you learned your lesson, Maia?”

A slow smile spread across Mairon’s face. “Yes, Master.”

He looked so hot like that, leaning his naked, stained body against the table and watching the Vala with loving satisfaction. Disheveled and relaxed, so unlike his usual stringent cool. Melkor almost felt sorry for what he was about to do.

Almost.

“Good,” he said, as curtly as he could. “In this case, call the generals back in. We still have a lot to discuss.”

“MASTER?!”


End file.
